


Heavy Weapons and How to Use Them

by Armengard



Series: Heavy Weapons [1]
Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: End Game, F/F, Free Heap, Horizon Zero Dawn (Video Game), Petra is bae, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 13:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10361574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armengard/pseuds/Armengard
Summary: The world ended, and then it didn't, and Aloy seeks a new purpose. In the meantime, visiting Free Heap and one Petra Forgewoman every so often is certainly worthwhile, as Aloy eventually finds out. Really, Oseram do flirt at the most inopportune times.Post-canon, spoilers abound. Petra is a character introduced in the side-quest "Heap of Trouble" but also shows up near the end of the game if you missed it. In either case, she is an outrageous flirt and I need more of her in my life.





	

The world ends, and then it doesn’t, and Aloy the Outcast, Aloy the Motherless, shame of the Nora, suddenly becomes Aloy the Savior, pride of the Nora and slayer of Hades. If Aloy hated the attention that saving the villagers at Mother’s Heart gave her, how the Matriarchs themselves had fallen at her feet after she walked out of the sacred bunker, this is about a hundred times worse. No, a thousand.

If only Rost could see her now, Aloy muses time and again, and misses him more than ever. She’s avenged his death at last, killed that blowhard Helis in the battle for Meridian without a moment's hesitation. She’s not even sure what happened to the madman’s body in the aftermath. A sky burial suits him, to be picked apart by crows. He doesn’t deserve mourning, or even a second thought. Rost, though… Rost will stay with her forever. Aloy will carry him with her wherever she goes.

Sometimes she can’t believe she survived the frantic battle against the Deathbringer. At night, she dreams of the scream of its rockets, the smell of smoke and ash and destruction. Days pass, and she still remembers the burn of her fingertips on bowstring, drawing back arrow after arrow, refusing to turn away from the mechanical monstrosity though people—her friends, her comrades—were fighting and dying all around her. And then, finally, finally, the dreaded thing had fallen, and she’d driven her spear into Hades' heart and stopped it for good.

And then she’d wake up, and realize it wasn’t all a dream. She’d really done it, and lived. Bruised and bumped and scratched of course, but alive. It was a battle for the ages, a battle to end all other battles. And she'd won.

The stillness afterwards shakes her more than any rampaging Thunderjaw or Stormbird ever could. For so long, she’d been fighting one war after another, tumbling through old ruins and forgotten cities headlong, with only the slightest bit of direction to guide her way, discovering things people had strived their whole lives to learn. And now, everyone is safe, and the death machines have fallen back to their tombs, and the fighting is done.

It’s natural, she thinks, to feel so lost. Her purpose is fulfilled. One day she’ll find another. Right now, though, she just wants some peace, and with that in mind, she packs up what little she owns, bids her farewells, and leaves Meridian behind less than a week after killing Hades.

For weeks, she just wanders. She wants to think, to be alone, to be free to do as she pleases and not have to listen to the torrents of feverish gratitude and praise bordering on downright worship she finds on nearly every corner of Meridian. Even Eredin is accommodating to a fault, ducking his head at her at every chance, eager to show his utmost respect until Aloy no longer feels annoyed by it, but faintly resentful, which makes her guilty and, in turn, sad and lonely. She doesn’t want to be angry with her friends, but she doesn’t know how _not_ to be. Not yet.

So she leaves the city and plunges headfirst into the wilds. She avoids towns for a time, stopping only for the most basic of supplies when she absolutely must, and only at night, usually waking the Merchant for quick trades before disappearing back into the dark, content to find a dry cave or sheltered hollow to sleep in. She tames machines, fights others. Tears apart fallen ones, makes use of their parts. She becomes so proficient with her bows and slings that using them is second nature. Where once she hesitated or missed her shots, now she is a true, skilled hunter. The Focus is her only companion out here. And it is all she wants, for now.

She thinks often about what happened, about the battle and the terror and the fury that is still buried somewhere inside her. She thinks about Rost, and their home together, and how he’d looked at her when he’d died. She thinks about the Nora, the people who shunned her before but now look to her in great reverence, but doesn’t ever point her steed or her feet their way. She isn’t ready to go back yet. She isn’t sure when she will be ready.

The south has plenty of adventures for a time. She explores mesas and forests and cave after cave after cave. She delves deep into any ruins she can find. She hears snippets of recordings from the Old Ones, finds lost journals and data points, each one a tiny piece in a massive puzzle she hopes to one day complete. She travels as far to the west as she can, and makes her way north. She climbs Tallnecks, fights Thunderjaws, kicks at the flanks of racing Chargers, the land turning to a multi-colored blur around her.

She visits Elizabet Sobeck’s makeshift grave, her armored body covered in creeping foliage, and pays her respects to the woman who gave them all a chance at life. She promises herself to return from time to time, maybe leave flowers. It seems a pithy thing after everything this woman has done for mankind, for Aloy herself.

For some time, she’s content to live on the edge—not happy. _Content_. Aloy knows there is a vast difference between the two, and if she cannot have one, she’ll take the other, gladly.

Eventually, months and weeks and endless days later, she feels a faint tug of loneliness. She hasn’t spoken aloud in almost a week, other than the odd grumbles to herself as she’s always done. Hasn’t seen another face that wasn’t a machine in just as long. She considers heading back to Meridian for a bit. She could visit Talanah at the Lodge, maybe join her in a new, exciting hunt, or see what Eredin is up to, help him with some routine Vanguard duties.

Instead, she heads east. After four days’ travel on foot—of her own choosing, since she doesn’t want to get too used to an easy ride, or scare anyone in the nearby villages, running up on a Strider or a Broadhead without warning—she arrives in Free Heap. A cry goes up when she reaches the outskirts. It’s Kaeluf, still stuck on guard duty after the near-fiasco with the missing Behemoth herd.

He smiles and calls back over the walls, “It’s Aloy! Aloy’s here!” and Aloy has never been so grateful that he uses her name—just her _name_ , not Aloy the Savior, Aloy the Conqueror, Aloy the Slayer of Hades—and knows she’s made the right choice.

Free Heap’s not home—far from it, and Aloy isn’t sure she’ll ever have one, really, which is fine with her for now—but it’s someplace relatively safe, and warm and friendly and interesting enough. The people here are indebted to her after she helped with their bandit and Scrapper problem, but instead of kissing the ground before her, they banter and laugh and offer simple, practical things to express their gratitude. They know she is a person, not a glowing idol.

She likes it here, she decides after only a few minutes. She likes the little town and she likes the people; Kaeluf and Jorgriz and Baladga and Petra Forgewoman most of all.

Petra is a true force of a woman, someone Aloy has come to admire and respect, especially after she turned up at Meridian to help in the final battle, bringing those heavy weapons of hers along for the fight. Without them, Aloy is not sure they would have won. In a sense, they are grateful for each other’s help, and so are more equal than anyone else here. That, Aloy likes more than anything.

Petra catches sight of her among the gathered crowd and shouts for everyone to stop mobbing her, elbowing them aside for her own turn.

"Flame-hair!" she cries, looking genuinely happy to see her. "Good to see you alive and kicking, like a good little Nora! Join us for the night, won't you? We'll have a feast!"

Aloy grins and agrees, unable to disappoint the woman who fought tooth and nail by her side only a month ago.

Darkness falls, and the members of Free Heap gather into a large ring around the communal campfire to share food, drink and stories. Aloy listens for a time, especially when Petra speaks, telling tales of her youth, sounding as though she’d had far too many adventures to count. As promised, she relates the building of the great elevator in Meridian— _a story in every link_ , she’d claimed—and Aloy is fascinated by how they came to be. The way Petra tells it, it doesn't even seem possible.

Then Aloy has a turn. She tells of how she faced Redmaw, the legendary Thunderjaw an entire lodge wanted dead, making sure to include Talanah, as it’d taken the two of them together to bring the beast down. Everyone listens attentively, Petra most of all, a quiet, thoughtful look on her soot-speckled face. She’s among the loudest cheering when Aloy finishes her tale, crying praises and hearty whoops. Then someone else picks up the next story, and on and on into the night they talk.

It is hard to stop smiling. Aloy doesn’t feel like an outcast here, or a Nora, or a fake Oseram. She feels like Aloy. She’s glad she came.

Late into the night, as people are dwindling from the town center, Petra invites Aloy to stay in her forge with her, an innocent enough suggestion since most everyone else is paired off into little tents or bunks or huts and Petra’s forge is big and warm, sort of like her, in a way. But Aloy knows what she’s actually asking—Petra’s never been shy about her appreciation for Aloy, flirting outrageously at every possible chance—and stares into the crackling flames of the communal campfire, face and ears gone pink only partly from the heat, and says, “I… I think I’ll sleep by the fire, tonight.”

Far from offended, Petra just laughs and makes a joke about how shy the Nora are, and that’s why there were so little of them, since they were too embarrassed to lay with one another to make more. It was quite true, in Aloy’s opinion, and she chuckles along good-naturedly with everyone else.

“Good night then, flame-hair,” Petra says fondly, and touches Aloy on the back as she walks by. Aloy can’t remember the last time someone touched her in such a way. Almost immediately, she finds herself missing the fleeting sensation with a ferocity that surprises her.

By first light of morning, Aloy is gone, retreating to the wilds she knows and understands. Machines never have hidden meanings—they wanted to kill you, or they didn’t. But Aloy finds it difficult to return to her previous sense of calm and balance. Where before she’d felt peace in her wanderings, she now feels an urge to return to friendly company. She doesn’t mind it—it gives her something to look forward to. A purpose, simple as it is. She can go back whenever she likes. Free Heap will be waiting for her. Petra Forgewoman, too.

Less than two weeks later, she returns. Free Heap welcomes her once more with open arms, as does Petra, who seems surprised to see her so soon, but pleased. They share a hearty meal, swap jokes and stories, and again, Aloy wakes by the fire and leaves before anyone stirs.

A habit is born. Aloy will spend a few weeks out in the expanse, hunting, exploring, learning, then return to Free Heap for a day or two of rest and mundane tasks. She stays up late in the night to speak with Petra, and they share with each other things Aloy has hidden from most others.

It’s difficult, Aloy says to Petra one night, to go from being an outcast, someone others spit on or cursed at or—worse—completely ignored, to the savior of their entire race. Sometimes Aloy finds herself cringing, waiting for the people of Free Heap to inevitably treat her as they do in Meridian, as something inhuman and untouchable and godly. Aloy the Savior, she loathes to hear, but it never comes. The others only call her by her name, and Petra uses Flame-hair, mostly. Hearing it makes Aloy smile.

The first time she rides up to the Heap on the back of a curl-horned Charger, everyone screams and scatters until someone recognizes her and shouts her name. Calm settles at once, and though people are intrigued, they don’t pester Aloy about it, or treat her any differently. Petra, working up on the top of her forge, watches her enter the village stoically, and when she comes down to greet Aloy with a hearty clap on the shoulder, there is something like awe in her eyes. She’s impressed, and Aloy flushes with pride. She _wants_ to impress Petra, this woman who’s seen and done so much over the years.

Instead of falling to her feet with proclamations of her inhuman powers as so many others have done, Petra says, with unbridled enthusiasm, “You have _got_ to show me how to do that!”

Aloy bursts out laughing. She laughs so hard it hurts, and Petra laughs with her, loud and bawdy. Afterwards, stomach sore and eyes pricked with tears, Aloy does just that, allowing Petra to study Sylens’ spear and the Override attached to it, going so far as to help the other woman onto the back of the placid Charger. The moment she’s on, the mount jerks and startles, sensing it isn’t Aloy, and bolts off with a high-pitched whine, fading fast to a glinting speck and a plume of dust in the distance. Petra lands hard on her bottom and laughs herself blue.

“Next time,” says Aloy as she helps her up with a firm grip on her hand, “I’ll get on with you. Maybe then it’ll work.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Flame-hair,” Petra says with a wicked smile and wink. Aloy blushes but doesn’t look away, only loosening her hold on Petra’s callused hand when Kaeluf comes running up, asking what all the commotion is about.

Aloy is not a thankless guest at Free Heap. She always brings something when she comes, whether it be new parts from rare machine encounters or good, fatty meat from downed boars and turkeys to be shared amongst the residents, many of whom she now calls friends. She sits with Kaeluf on his night watches, giving him someone to talk to through the long, boring hours, and goes on hunts with the now-married but ever-arguing Baladga and Jorgriz, and helps with the general mining or sorting through the excess of the Heap itself. There’s always something for her to do here.

Sometimes, Petra will have a new weapon for Aloy to try. Always heavy, always loud. Aloy fires it at crookedly built dummies or piles of rocks and the charge of heat and lightning and pure power flushes through her and makes her heart race. She can feel Petra’s eyes on her every time, tracing the bulging muscles along Aloy's back, straining under the weight of the weapon, the set of her hips and the wide stance of her legs as the cannon kicks back against her with ferocious strength. She never hides it, either, the watching, smiling rakishly at Aloy whenever she turns back around, appreciative and flirty and undeniably impressed with her handling. Aloy will stutter out some suggestion or another to make the gun more stable, or shoot further or not be so damned heavy, and Petra will chuckle and grin at her until Aloy retreats back to the communal fire, half-deaf and smelling of smoke and soot, her body feeling tight and tense from the sudden exercise, heart still racing and hair charged as if from a sudden storm.

She tells herself it’s from firing the heavy weapon, this feeling, not from knowing Petra was watching her, that Petra very clearly wants her, desires her. She wishes Rost had explained things better when she’d been growing up. The first time she’d bled at twelve, he’d disappeared for a few hours, then returned with supplies to aid her ‘monthly strife,’ and said she’d become a woman. What followed was the fastest, most confusing conversation Aloy had ever had with him.

Regardless, over the years she’s figured most of it out by herself. More so recently than before, when retreating back to the wild and a cold, lonely bedroll after a day or two spent under Petra’s watchful eyes. She's grown accustomed to the feel of her own body, the quick, furtive touch of bow-plucked hands sliding down past her waistband to help soothe her tension. It helps her sleep, helps her body to relax, but does little to ease the strange feeling in her chest, leaving her with far more questions than answers.

Like what did it mean, exactly, when you felt those things, the gnawing push, the endless longing? What were you supposed to do about it? Were you supposed to just listen to it, and do what it wanted? Aloy had felt it before, this urge—not often—once the day before the Proving, when Vala had spoken to her across the closely-pushed beds, a pretty girl treating her like a person and not some grotesque thing, and then again in Sunfall, when Vanasha—beautiful, mysterious Vanasha—had asked for her help and then fought bravely alongside her to bring Itamen and his mother to Meridian, to safety. Vanasha had flirted and hinted and winked, but Aloy had felt a child next to her, too solemn and inexperienced to truly consider what the woman was offering—or not, since she seemed to treat everyone in the same flirtatious manner.

But Petra… Petra isn’t hinting, Aloy knows. Aloy isn’t dull. Petra is twice her age. She is confident and brazen and set in her ways. How much love had she had in her lifetime, Aloy wonders. She’d said restless girls were her weakness; how many of those same girls had broken her heart and left her there, alone in Free Heap? Would Aloy end up being another? She doesn’t want to hurt Petra, or hurt herself.

Hunting takes patience, Rost always said. It takes planning and it takes thought. But, sometimes, it also takes pure instinct, like when a Watcher rounds a corner quicker than you’d thought it would, and catches sight of you sliding fast into the long grass and stalks over to investigate, ruining hours of survey and mapping.

For Aloy, this is a new kind of hunt. She isn’t even exactly sure whether she or Petra is the hunter, and who is the prey. Still, it interests her. Keeps her coming back, time after time, feeling more at ease with herself, with the other members of Free Heap, and with Petra, too.

This time, when she leaves Free Heap, she stays away for almost a month. It is, in a word, torture. The entire time, she thinks of the little town, of Petra and her suggestive smiles, her raucous laugh, her heady, overpowering presence.

Nobody comments or asks Aloy where she’s been when she walks determinedly into Free Heap one evening as the sun sinks below the horizon. Everyone is happy to see her, including Petra, who hugs her fondly, her body warm and soft and inviting. The Forgewoman is uncommonly quiet as they sit together by the campfire, slightly apart from everyone else. Aloy has no stories tonight. She merely waits.

When the hour grows late, and Petra again makes the half-joking invitation to sleep in the forge with her, already turned to leave, ready for the inevitable dismissal, Aloy stands and says, “Yes.”

It seems the entire Heap goes quiet. Not realizing she’d spoken quite so loud, Aloy turns red, but doesn’t rescind her answer. Over a chorus of goading laughter and surprised hoots, Petra roars for everyone to, “Shut your damn mouths for once!” and then takes Aloy gently by the hand and leads her away.

Petra doesn’t have a fancy bed like the ones Aloy has seen in Meridian—sturdy things made of sawn wood and reed and rope and a plump mattress stuffed with down or cloth—but a large bedroll covered in well-worn animal furs and soft-woven blankets. Is it the Oseram way, or just the Petra way, Aloy wonders. When Aloy sits on the bedroll, unprompted, it gives slightly beneath her, a soft, inviting feeling. The furs smell of old metal and sweat, and musk, and Petra. Aloy can feel herself blushing, can feel her heart starting to hammer in her throat, knowing what is about to happen, _wanting_ it to, and watches quietly as Petra lights a small fire in a hearth nearby, the flames turning the dark room a muted red color. The heat from the forge above and around them is pleasant and soothing, creating a sheen of sweat on Petra’s bare arms and back. Aloy is intrigued and excited and jittery all at once, like before a great battle.

But this isn’t some unpredictable machine, she tells herself. This isn’t a bloodthirsty bandit, or Hades itself—it’s Petra Forgewoman, and this is something Aloy wants.

Joining her on the bedroll, Petra says firmly, “I won’t do anything you don’t like,” and lays back, one arm curved lazily behind her head, the other loose at her side, here shoulders propped up on her pillows, watching Aloy without a hint of expectation. Aloy realizes she’s waiting for her to make the first move, that this entire encounter is under her control. Petra is giving it to her, and Aloy is thankful.

So, before she can think too much or open her mouth to say something foolish, Aloy takes a breath and then crawls—slowly, so she doesn’t elbow or bump anything she shouldn’t—over Petra’s body and presses their lips together.

For a first kiss, Aloy thinks it’s a good one. She can tell Petra is smiling through it before the older woman’s lips begin to move against hers, and keeps her eyes closed and kisses back as well as she can. Being so close to someone is frightening, yet thrilling—Aloy never realized how precious it can be, how special. They share each other’s breath, their every move and minute shift. Aloy can practically feel Petra’s eyelashes fluttering.

Then Petra opens her mouth and kisses her again, slower but a little harder, and Aloy melts. She clutches at Petra’s shoulders and mimics the older woman, opening her mouth so the kiss is fuller, wetter, until they fall into a rhythm of sorts, catching quick snatches of air when their slick mouths slide apart, only to meet again with a soft suck a moment later. Aloy hears the pop of the fire, the rustle of their clothes between them, the heated, illicit sound of their lips meeting and parting. Her entire body is heating up and she feels as though she’s caught aflame, sweat beading on her nape beneath the heavy curtain of her hair and under her breasts, nipples gone hard and aching, trapped under the thick layer of her clothing and armor. Petra’s tongue is quick and clever, teasing as Petra herself is, running along the inside of Aloy’s bottom lip and flicking gently at the top until Aloy responds in kind.

Aloy isn’t sure exactly what Petra tastes like—something too complicated to name, or maybe those five-types-of-metal she'd teased about once—but she knows she likes it, and hopes Petra feels the same. As their tongues touch and twine, Petra hums deep in her throat, the rumble traveling through Aloy’s body, moving past her waist and settling down in the juncture between her legs.

Petra pulls back with a faint _smack_ , kissing at Aloy’s flushed cheeks and nose, tongue tracing the lobe of her ear—had Aloy always been so sensitive there?—and raises a hand to keep her steady as she ventures down to the edge of her jaw with her hot, wet mouth. She touches Aloy’s neck, runs a single finger along the scar there, the one Helis gave her during the massacre at the Proving. Aloy shudders but doesn’t stop her, feeling a warm thrill shoot through her body at the sensation—surprisingly, it is not a bad one that heralds painful memories, but one that makes her skin prickle and the heat between her legs grow hotter than ever. She’s wet. Petra can probably tell, can probably smell it from here. True to form, Petra grins at Aloy wickedly and grips her curved bottom with both hands, giving her cheeks a healthy squeeze. Aloy jerks at the sudden touch, then pushes back eagerly against the hands. She wants to feel it again. Petra obliges, nosing as far down Aloy’s throat as she can get before the armor halts her progress.

“We can stop here, if you like—” Petra starts, but Aloy cuts her off, sitting up abruptly, thighs straddling Petra’s hips.

“No!” Again, she’s loud, too loud, but she’s sure nobody can hear them down here. “No. I want to.” As if to persuade her, Aloy dips down to kiss her again, not so unsure of herself now, even going so far as to bite Petra’s lips in admonishment for trying to end this so quickly. “I want to,” she whispers against Petra’s mouth, and the other woman nods, her breath gone hoarse and quick. She pushes gently so Aloy is sitting upright again, and starts to work on her armor. She seems a bit puzzled by all the catches and seams, so Aloy helps remove the top section before rolling off Petra to work at the bottom. As each piece is methodically removed, Petra sits back again and watches with keen interest.

It occurs to Aloy that she’s never really considered if someone else liked what they saw when they looked at her—she’s never cared what she looks like, as long as it wasn’t a fool. Now, naked from crown to toe with Petra’s eyes tracing every bare inch of her, Aloy feels slightly nervous, wondering if she should cover herself or apologize. She knows she isn’t delicate and slender like the noble girls in Meridian, dolled up with the latest fashions, expensive decorations littering their hair, limbs heavy with precious jewelry and eyes ringed with colorful paint to enhance their natural beauty. Some girls even did extreme things, like remove their body hair, a practice Aloy has never seen the purpose of following.

To Aloy, her opinion of her own appearance is simple and blunt—she has red hair and light, hazel eyes; she is not particularly tall or short; her body is strong and young. That is the extent of her vanity.

Petra certainly appreciates it, to Aloy’s relief. She takes long moments to run her hands over Aloy’s muscular shoulders, her rigid flanks, her flat, sculpted stomach and sturdy thighs. She even runs a hand between Aloy’s legs, over the thatch of wild red hair there, gone dark with wetness. Aloy is quivering by the time she’s done, swallowing back her moans, chagrined that such light touches are driving her mad, trembling almost to pieces atop Petra, who seems so perfectly composed.

“You’re a real beauty, Aloy machine hunter,” Petra murmurs. “ _Very_ well-struck.”

“Do you Oseram always flirt at the most inopportune times?” Aloy grumbles, settling back on her perch over Petra’s wide hips.

“Inopportune?” Petra guffaws.

“I’m already in your bedroll,” Aloy huffs, glad they can do this—kiss and touch and laugh with equal ease. Petra seems to agree, as she chuckles amiably and then pulls Aloy down for a long, delicious round of kissing, working Aloy back to the flaring heat she’d felt only minutes before. She’s ready to protest their slow pace once again when Petra suddenly lays a hand on the curve of her hip, then traces the line of muscle there inwards, parting her pubic hair and touching the delicate skin beneath.

 _I’ve calluses older than you_ , Petra had said when she’d first come to Free Heap. Aloy now becomes intimately acquainted with those same calluses, catching at the tender, sensitive parts of her, leaving her breathless and aching. While her fingers explore busily below, Petra bites gently at Aloy's bare chest and erect nipples, pulling them taut between her teeth before sucking harshly, leaving angry red marks across Aloy’s pale skin. She seems to know exactly where to touch her, how hard and how long. Every move is sure and confident, the touch of an older woman who absolutely knows what she is doing.

Carefully, Petra slides two long, callused fingers inside her. Aloy clenches down on them on reflex, gritting her teeth and gasping, trying to spread her legs wider and falling forward when her balance upsets, her face ending up in the pillow by Petra’s head, her chest pressed to Petra’s own. She stays there, unable to form the simplest thought or strength to move, crying out as Petra begins to stroke her insides while her thumb finds her sweet spot, up towards the front of her, pulsing and needy. With her other hand, she squeezes one of Aloy’s breasts, running a rough finger back and forth over her straining nipple. She whispers in Aloy’s ear things the Nora girl has never dreamed of, things that intrigue and excite and astound her, until she is so wet she can hear the barely audible _squelch_ of Petra’s fingers plunging in and out of her.

Just when Aloy is sure she will either go mad or explode into pieces, the hot, rushing feeling inside her comes to a sudden head and she shudders her way through a wracking climax. She doesn’t scream, but buries her face into Petra’s neck and whimpers loudly, her body jerking and hitching uncontrollably. Finally, she collapses atop the other woman, boneless and sated, covered in sweat, gasping for breath. Petra makes a soft sound and kisses her tenderly on the lips, then again on the forehead, and runs a hand down her heaving back while she recovers.

After a few minutes, Aloy’s head in clear enough for her to decide she wants very, very much to return the favor. It’s a bit of a daunting task, since she’s never touched another person like this before, but she’s traveled almost every inch of the known land and slain more machines than she can count. How hard could this be?

At first, she merely sits back and studies the older woman, who looks entirely content to stay exactly as she is in that moment—if Aloy decided she wanted to stop there tonight, Petra would probably agree without protest.

She helps Petra undress, and they lay together, entangled on the furs, so close Aloy can hardly breathe. Petra is bigger than Aloy is almost every way. She is taller, thicker, broader. Her breasts are twice as large. She has stretch marks and scars alike fanning across her shoulders and thighs, the skin of her hands and muscled forearms gone dark from years of the forge’s intense heat. Aloy can sense how strong she truly is. She could probably lift Aloy with one hand. To lay atop this woman and make her feel the things Aloy only just experienced seems almost an honor.

She can feel Petra’s wetness on her thigh, and bends her knee to press closer. Petra moans in appreciation and ruts back against her, as unashamed here as she is in everything else. Aloy is shocked to find she’s already growing aroused again, wanting to grind herself against Petra’s own leg in return, but holds back for now, wanting to satisfy the other woman first.

She cups Petra’s plentiful breasts in both hands, feeling their softness and weight. She kisses Petra’s warm, giving mouth, then trails down her chin to the flat of her sternum. Petra’s nipples are large and erect, and Aloy takes her time with them, pulling one into her mouth while twisting the other playfully between her fingers. Petra is quieter than Aloy was, but no less enthusiastic, humming and arching toward her eagerly. Aloy removes her knee from where it’s been tucked between Petra’s legs, runs her fingers over the dark, damp hair there, and pushes through.

Petra is hot as a forge inside, so wet Aloy can almost instantly feel it dripping off her knuckles. Everything is soft and slick and each little movement makes Petra gasp and writhe and shake in response. Aloy tries different things—spreading her fingers apart, crooking them, rubbing them firmly against Petra’s walls—and listens to Petra’s uninhibited groans, her soft curses, her quick breaths. Will she be able to make Petra feel like she had?

She remembers what Petra had done to her, what’d felt good and what’d felt better, and does those things too, rubbing at the hard, swollen part of her towards the front, propping herself up on an elbow and watching Petra’s face carefully. Petra looks strained, as if she’s concentrating very hard. Is she holding back, afraid of startling Aloy with her passion? In response, Aloy rubs harder, sinks her fingers deeper, and bites Petra on the breasts as Petra had done to her. Petra gasps and howls, the sound loud and sharp, echoing throughout the forge, and Aloy doesn’t stop. Her arm is burning, muscles cramping, as Petra rolls her hips and thrusts back against her with almost brutal force, and then the older woman bites her lip, throws her head back, and convulses with a savage moan. Aloy feels it, her fingers trapped in a throbbing hot vice, and keeps her hand still, afraid to ruin Petra’s pleasure if she retreats too soon.

Like Aloy, Petra goes limp after her climax, wheezing, her body shining with sweat, eyes closed as she recovers. Aloy watches her with a proud little smile, wrist aching from the odd position it’d been bullied into, feeling strands of wetness stretch and snap as she takes her hand away from between Petra’s trembling legs. Curious, she lifts the wet fingers to her mouth and tastes them. It’s salty and musky, faintly reminiscent of the smell lingering on Petra’s furs. Aloy cleans her fingers with steady swipes of her tongue and decides she likes it. She looks up to find Petra watching her with a hungry fire in her eyes and gives her a sheepish smile.

“Was I…not supposed to do that?” she asks shyly. Petra’s fond smile turns positively filthy.

“Come here, and I’ll show you,” she growls, and pulls Aloy under her.

Only a few minutes later, Aloy is arching her back against the furs and jagging her hips forward against Petra’s wicked, wicked mouth, choking on her own moans as they rip from her chest, desperately trying not to pass out. She looks down exactly once, only to find Petra gazing intensely back at her, and she can _see_ Petra’s tongue as it twists and swirls against all her tight, swollen places between her legs, and has to look away or this will be over much faster than she wants it to be. She buries her fingers into the furs instead of Petra’s hair and squeezes her eyes shut and bites her own lip to keep quiet. She wishes she had that leather strap Petra talked about before to bite down on, for her new heavy weapon. She hears Petra chuckle— _feels_ her—and then she sucks at Aloy with relish until Aloy shrieks and finishes with a spasm of her stomach muscles, her hips jerking away from Petra’s hungry mouth on reflex and her thighs snapping shut, as if she can’t take anymore.

Aloy waits for the inevitable joke about tasting metal on her now, but the older woman is beyond her humor, licking her lips deliberately, eyes still bright with arousal. Aloy catches her breath and says, “Let me try,” and Petra is all too happy to lay back in her previous position, one arm crooked behind her head, the other cupping Aloy’s skull in a gentle, helpful way.

Now that she’s closer, Aloy can see what she’d been touching only minutes before. Petra is swollen and flushed and very, very wet. She is beautiful. Aloy uses her hands to push Petra’s legs apart as much as possible, and then dives forward.

It’s messy—Aloy’s hair keeps getting in the way, falling in her mouth, plastered to Petra’s wet thighs, and soon Aloy’s cheeks and even her ears are sticky with it. But Petra is squirming and crying out and the taste of her is wild and musky and addictive and Aloy wouldn’t stop if a rampaging Sawtooth burst into the room that very moment. It’s not long before Petra is shuddering again before going limp, and then in a sudden surge of energy, she takes Aloy by the hips and picks her up, balancing her again on her lap, back where they’d started.

One last time, Petra slips her wonderfully callused fingers inside Aloy and lets her ride them at her own leisure, Aloy sitting upright in the firelight, completely and unabashedly exposed. Aloy is shocked by her own boldness. She lifts and falls, lifts and falls against her, looks down to where Petra's fingers spread and pierce her, then up to Petra’s face to find the other woman watching her with a voracious desire. This time, Aloy doesn’t look away, and the longer their eyes hold, the bigger Petra’s grin becomes. Aloy braces herself with hands to Petra’s chest and rides her harder than before, and Petra shifts and enters her with a third finger, making Aloy gasp and shudder at the stretch. When Aloy climaxes, she bends almost all the way backwards with a moan and a whine, grateful when Petra’s strong arms come around her and turn her the right way ‘round, lowering her head to the pillows beneath them.

“You’re a special one, Flame-hair,” Petra murmurs into her ear as she covers her tenderly with the rumpled blankets.

“Falling for another restless girl, huh?” Aloy mumbles back sleepily, eyes half-closed. Petra kisses her soundly, and they taste each other on their lips. It’s almost enough to rouse Aloy again, but then Petra is cradling an arm around her back and tucking Aloy’s head into the crook of her shoulder and Aloy decides she won’t move for anything in the world.

“Told you I have a weakness for ‘em,” says Petra. “But I don’t mind the wandering. Just don’t get yourself killed out there, Aloy machine hunter. Promise?”

“Pr’mis,” Aloy replies drowsily, yawning. She’s already wondering if they can do this again in the morning, before she leaves. It will be nice to be able to have a proper goodbye instead of surreptitiously ducking out while everyone is still asleep.

“I’ll have something new for you to try out next time,” says Petra. Aloy isn’t sure if she means this, or one of her heavy weapons. Either way, she will have someone waiting for her here in Free Heap. Somewhere to return to. It makes her feel warm and good and more than content. She feels happy.

Maybe she won’t wait so long before she visits next time.

**Author's Note:**

> basically, I wrote the fic I wanted desperately to read on this site, so I hope the rest of you enjoy it along with me!


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